


of velvet and gold mines

by reywrite



Category: Galaxy Run
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Ferox House, I'll update tags as I go, Lapdance, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pimp Court, Stoker's a little brat, Substance Abuse, and honestly so is Court, as will some siblings :), the russians will show up later, there will be tentacles, they will actually bang eventually i promise, we support sex work in this house
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:15:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26224018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reywrite/pseuds/reywrite
Summary: The Host laughs, and the noise is as terrifying as it is beautiful. The notes are all wrong, strung too high, sounding as if they were born from a chest containing not bones and blood, but saltwater and stars.Stripper AU—or, Stoker accepts a promotion, entirely unaware of the feelings he's about to catch.This is so self-indulgent for something made as a gift...I hope it lives up to expectations?
Relationships: Court Pars Feram/Stoker Chaudfroid
Comments: 3
Kudos: 1





	of velvet and gold mines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElectricMarrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectricMarrow/gifts).



> Happy birthday, lovely <3

They say, in whispers spread around the planet of Funale, that the Ferox House is a place of sin. They say that lust corrupts the hearts of all who go near it; that its music is a hypnosis sung by the darlings of the underworld. 

Stoker Chaudfroid is one such darling—a dancer, wrapped in silk and fishnet, who spins circles around a captivated audience with fingers sparking red flame. It’s a job he was born for; the heat of the spotlight and the rapt attention of a thousand eyes give him a thrill like none other. 

His employer runs the place, and the planet too. Congregatione Pars Feram, the Host, Court...or simply that colorful old eccentric with far too much money and time on his hands. 

Stoker has only met him a few times, can count on one hand the number of times he’s been the victim of sharp gaze and accented voice. He remembers every instance in perfect detail—there is something off about the Host, something _wrong_ in the way the air settles around the lines of his body, or the way he seems to taste every word that exits teal-painted lips, or the way his skin shimmers as he moves, like ripples skipped across still water. It intimidates the yevkar, just as much as it draws him in. 

He assumes his boss must watch the shows sometimes—after all, what pimp doesn’t take pride in his collection of starlets?—but neither he nor any of the other dancers have ever seen him among the audience’s count. Still, they all have Court’s existence to thank for their livelihoods. The pay is good, better once you include their contract’s benefits of living quarters, dressing rooms, and free reign of the club’s halls. It’s a life many would envy, and Stoker is thoroughly happy with it, seemingly born for the glory of the limelight and the rich wonders of life on Funale. He’s even got his sister by his side, although she prefers to stay in the Ferox’s kitchen, assembling dinners worthy of kings for each night’s patrons. 

But change is as inevitable as the ocean’s tide, and on an evening that could otherwise be described as entirely mundane, with food and drink and performance just like any other, Stoker’s fate takes a sharp left turn. 

It’s the end of the night, and as always, the final song claims a slower, more sensual beat, something to light the fire in the audience’s loins and inspire them to pay for a private treatment once the curtain falls. For this number, the dancers are clothed in crushed velvet, a deep scarlet shade shot through with bright silver, that tightens at the hips and flares around the thighs. Stoker is particularly fond of this costume; he likes the way the light catches along the intricate patterns of thread, flickering over his body like a candle’s flame. 

He’s partial to the dance as well, as it’s full of all the moves he likes best, rolls, drops, and gyrations. The music starts to wind down, and he turns into a spin that lands with a pop of his hip, then morphs into an achingly slow body roll, meant to hypnotize those below the stage whose eyes are glued to his body. Stoker’s gaze flicks upwards as he moves, and he grins at the harlequin lights that twirl above him, blues and pinks and purples and oranges, blurring each other’s lines to form one shifting sheet of color. 

The dance ends, the music dies. Stoker lets out a breath, eyes fluttering shut as he holds the final split until the lights go dark. 

He’s on his way back to his dressing room for a smoke, bumping up against faceless voices, each drunker than the last, when he feels a sharpness at his arm. Harsh enough that he can feel it through the velvet of his sleeve, it tugs him back, away from the crowd and into a corner where the air is heady and sweet. 

A drink is shoved into his hand, something fruity, its scent drifting upwards to spin around his head and dizzy his senses before he’s even taken a sip. Stoker feels a hand pressing at the small of his back, and warm breath brushing pointed ear, with barely an inch separating host and hostage.

“It’s, ah, Stoker, isn’t it? Chaudfroid?” 

Stoker nods, slit eyebrow raising as he spins to find Feram himself standing there, all teal smirk and draping robes, everything the rumors made him out to be. “—The one and only.” 

A laugh comes from the figure above him, slow and drawn out and just barely over the line of genuine. “My _best_ dancer. You do such, such good work, darlink, you know zat?” 

“...I wasn’t aware you’d seen me perform.” He lifts the drink to cover his mouth, hoping the shade of purple that’s taken over his cheeks can be explained away by alcohol and exertion. 

“Oh, of course! Of _course_ I watch you. Beautiful, uh, beautiful stuff.” 

“Merci,” Stoker mumbles past a mouthful of fruity liquid. Its strawberry burn slides down his throat to warm his veins—and hopefully push away the anxiety he feels beginning to buzz within his ribs. 

“I have a...vhat vould you call it. An offer, for you, Stoker.”

The anxiety grows wings and starts throwing itself around the walls of Stoker’s chest, its buzzing growing louder with every too-fast beat of his heart. “Oh?” 

One slender finger, heavy with silver and tipped with a perfectly manicured nail, lifts to press beneath Stoker’s chin, angling it upwards to force eye contact. “I vant you to become my, uh, my star.” The hand shifts, a thumb drawing itself along the curve of Stoker’s jaw in what could almost be called a caress. 

“I—your star?”

“My lead dancer. Prince of ze stage...ze crown jewel of my establishment. You’d get, mm, better...treatment, of course, little supernova.”

A promotion. He’d been _noticed_ , and by the Host, of all people. It’s an opportunity he’d be a fool to turn away, no matter the downside. There would be a catch, of course, especially with someone like Court, but...

“Zink it over, won’t you?” And with that, Court takes his leave, sweeping past Stoker with a sharp-toothed grin and a final twitch of tan fingers. 

Stoker is left to stumble back to his dressing room, with barely any time before his next cue to process recent events. Said events don’t properly sink in until several hours later, when he is settling into bed and turns to look at his nightstand. 

Upon the table, surrounded by the innards of his recent project—an antique watch he’d found by chance, and has been using his spare moments to dismantle and rebuild—sits a bottle of wine. Tied to its neck is a ribbon, sleek and elegant, that shines in the light and bounces when lifted.

The ribbon’s silky surface is shaded the deep, familiar teal of lipstick and paint lines; the universe’s color of choice. 

x

Three nights go by, with the days that preceded them passing in a blur of work and worry. Stoker spends any free second he has contemplating the Host’s offer, worrying about whatever hidden catch there might be. He even asks the opinion of his sister, but Eve simply snickers at him, tells him he can do better than _that,_ and sends him out of the cabaret’s kitchen with the insistence that he’s distracting her and a threatening wave of icy fingers. She does, however, let him steal some Funalian Krim on the way out, his favorite treat. 

On the fourth, the moon rises on a packed show, and Stoker’s nerves are alight with the fire that runs through his veins. The Host sits front row, flanked by the familiar faces of his bodyguards, bothering to hide neither his presence nor his attentions. 

Stoker swallows back the sharp bite of nervous excitement that rises in his throat, a feeling not unpleasant but certainly unwelcome, as the curtain lifts. He doesn’t have to look to find his position on the dark stage, nor does he have to focus on his steps as the first notes begin. His body has memorized this opening number, and it executes the movements with an easy, practiced grace. 

It doesn’t take long for the familiarity of the dance to pull his mind away from its fixation. His thoughts shift into something almost prideful as he lets the rhythm take him, his movements growing flashier as confidence bleeds back into them. He even offers the audience a wink, the motion directed to all but meant for only one. 

There’s a section, in this particular song, where the dancers disperse throughout the crowd, each picking a different audience member to give a more personalized show. The beat mellows, pulling long like taffy into the instrumental section, and this time, Stoker doesn’t bother scanning the crowd for whichever guest first draws his eye. This time, there is no choice involved. 

He manages to hold bright violet gaze as his round waist settles over Court’s angular one, giving the Host an easy, almost flirtatious grin. Stoker soon settles into a rhythm that agrees with the beat, hips moving with the ease that comes from innate skill and a thousand nights of practice. 

Court doesn’t waste any time, only preceding his question with an appreciative glance down Stoker’s frame. “Have you thought about my, ah, offer?” 

“That’s one way to put it.” The truth is, Stoker hasn’t _stopped_ thinking about it, hasn’t been able to keep the idea of such glory from creeping into his daydreams. Not to mention the privilege of being allowed the electric touch of tanned hands and teal lips—something Stoker hadn’t known he wanted until it was his.

“It’s a good deal, no?”

Still, he might as well try to milk the situation for all it’s worth. “...One condition? One condition, and then I’m yours.” 

“And vhat vould _zat_ be?” Court seems far too put together for a man both inebriated and currently receiving a lap dance, his voice even and his eyes clear. 

“My sister gets an equal promotion. She’s been working here as long as I have, she deserves head chef.” 

The Host laughs, and the noise is as terrifying as it is beautiful. The notes are all wrong, strung too high, sounding as if they were born from a chest containing not bones and blood, but saltwater and stars. 

“If you wish it.” The sentence is paired with a shrug of bony shoulders, and Stoker breathes relief. 

With his offer accepted—not that anyone ever says no to the Host—Court seems much more relaxed, and far more receptive to Stoker’s movements. His shoulders settle beneath the high-collared robe Stoker has never seen him without, the lines of his body long, languid, and open.

Stoker takes this as an invitation, quickening his hips and closing his eyes as he rolls forward over the—squirming?—mass beneath the shining silver of Court’s quickly tightening waistband. A quiet grunt escapes the being beneath him, and the Host’s nails press sharp into the skin visible between the fishnet mesh over his thighs. Surprised delight shocks through Stoker’s system at the reaction, and he can’t help but let a quiet, self-satisfied laugh burst from his chest, breathed into the space between their bodies. 

The sound has barely has time to fade into the constant mull of audience chatter and euphonics that surrounds them before there is a hand at his throat, squeezing the sides of his airway with clear expertise. The pressure clouds his mind, and when Court tightens another increment, decorated thumb digging into his pulse point, colors begin to dance across Stoker’s vision, competing with the lights above. 

The Host is saying something, lilting tone carrying just a hint of a warning, but Stoker’s mind is still coming back to itself, and the words spin through his brain without carrying any meaning. The fact that they are not alone catches his attention with a flash of embarrassment; the eyes of hundreds of patrons are violating this strangely intimate moment.

He gives another roll, pale green flesh pressing harder against tanned in a physical beg, and forces out a quiet whine with the little air he has left. He doesn’t mean it to sound so pleading, but the note comes out as something close to a sob, high and desperate. 

Court clicks his tongue, the sound almost sympathetic, and loosens his fingers with a ‘ _Gut_ junge,’ breathed against the side of Stoker’s face. The words burn Stoker’s skin, branding his cheeks with a bright purple flush that only darkens as he continues to do his job, hips taking on an uncharacteristic stutter. Even free from the pressure at his throat, he finds himself still struggling for breath, so caught between effort and arousal is he. 

Court’s grin above him is like that of a shark, a sharp-toothed razor slice of a smile, and Stoker can’t help but be taken by its beauty. 

A distant part of his mind wonders just what he’s gotten himself into. 

**Author's Note:**

> Parts two and three will happen by the end of the year. I swear on all three of Court's hearts!!
> 
> here's a fun little excerpt of what's to come: 
> 
> _He almost says it, almost chokes out a surprised confession into the unnatural heat of the mouth above his own, but manages to silence himself at the last second. Court blinks at him in confusion, violet and white slowly spilling to replace black like blood into tissue paper, and voices a question that Stoker barely hears._


End file.
